Flying High
by Skalidra
Summary: Damian has almost no interest in the troupe of entertainers coming through, but his mother insists that he attend the performance, since it's been condoned by his grandfather himself. He remains unimpressed with it until he spots one of the performers. A man in grey and blue, with a charming smile and impossibly blue eyes.


Hey guys! So, we're into DickDami week here. I wrote three things for it, and this is the first of them. Day 2, Flexibility! It's also fulfilling the optional smut challenge : Loss of Virginity. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for : Explicit sex.

* * *

At first, Damian has no interest in news of a troupe of entertainers visiting his father's lands. Such bands circle often, and though he's never actually been to one of the shows they offer — to mingle with commoners would be beneath his station as heir to his grandfather's empire — he's always thought they sounded garish. Full of freaks from various lands, things meant to shock or entice the common mind into being awed enough to pay to look.

His grandfather's always ignored their passage, and his tutors have explained it as a mutually profitable arrangement. His grandfather allows the entertainers to pass through his lands as they like, to put on their shows how and when they like, and in exchange they reap the rewards of a populace tricked into happiness. No matter how difficult times may get, especially during the colder seasons, the shows like these keep their people feeling content.

It isn't until his mother asks for one troupe to be allowed to perform within the palace's walls, specifically _for_ them, that he ever actually sees one of these groups. He hears something of the conversation, bits of information about how this particular group of entertainers has traveled across distant lands, performed for hundreds upon hundreds of towns and cities, and dozens of different courts. He also hears the name 'Wayne' whispered, but moments later he's shooed out of the room so he doesn't know what the ruling family of their greatest rival kingdom has to do with this.

The entertainers slip into their court in muted colors, ornate clothing in strange foreign patterns that's more suitable than the garish colors he was expecting. He stays at his mother's side, idly listening as the leaders of this group — a bigger man in a _ridiculously_ tall hat named Haley, among a couple others — express gratitude for their reception, and the chance to perform in front of them.

He listens, catching the idea that the entertainers will be setting up a tent in the main courtyard for a show tonight, with room for as many or as few of the court and the palace's servants and guards as may attend. Since his grandfather doesn't outright reject the idea, he has to assume that there's no objection to the idea of others watching the same show as them, which has to mean that they'll have raised or otherwise separate seats. His grandfather would never sink to sitting with people of a more common class.

He studies each of the entertainers in turn — these seem to be mainly the more important ones, and not the full group — and his attention catches on a man standing near the back. Of an average height, dressed in a dark grey and blue patterned set of clothing — long, flowing — that sets off his shade of impossibly blue eyes. His black hair is just about the average for a member of nobility — barring those from colder kingdoms — but short for a commoner, lying in a sort of wind-tousled mess that's odd mainly because there's been no wind today.

The man's gaze meets his for a moment, before flicking downwards, mouth curling into a smile that's all too charming.

It's good that it seems to be in time with the entertainers leaving, because that calls everyone's attention and makes sure that no one — he hopes — sees the way his breath catches. It's a ridiculous reaction to a mere _smile_ , and he swallows it away and makes sure that all trace of the flaw is gone before his mother's attention turns towards him. Even before the entertainers are fully out of the room.

"What did you think, Damian?" his mother asks, as his grandfather calls the assembled court to order and opens the floor to any matters they wish addressed.

"Interesting enough," he grants, but isn't entirely sure his mother is fooled by his dismissal.

* * *

The night comes faster than he's expecting, and soon enough he's being gathered and brought down to the main courtyard by his mother, and to the tent set up there. When they said 'tent' he thought it would be something small, but the massive canvas construction nearly fills the courtyard, leaving just enough around the edges for the flow of people to pass unimpeded. The guards accompanying them make a path through, and his mother's arm is hooked through his, both guiding him and allowing him to guide her, in turns.

The inside of the tent is lit with torches as well as open flames in elaborate metal containers, casting the whole place in an orange glow, and illuminating all but the darkest corners. There's a large ring set up to one side of the tent, with a waist high wooden barricade encircling the bits of it that aren't comprised of the cloth of the tent itself. Around that, on the side that their opening let into, are rows of wooden seats. Most are already filled, and the air is full of the buzz of everyone's conversations.

The moment they're inside, one of the entertainers appears to guide them up to the place clearly meant for their family. A higher wooden construction, elevated above the rest of the seats and set fairly close to the ring. His grandfather's seat — slightly ahead of the other two — is empty, but that's not entirely surprising. After all, his mother was the one who requested this occur; unless his grandfather truly is interested he doubts that there will be an appearance.

Judging by the way his mother orders the guards to move the chairs on either side of his grandfather's seat to one side, she doesn't expect him to join them either.

The guards take up position at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to their section, and he settles in to wait, watching a couple more simply dressed entertainers slip around the ring as the crowd grows, checking ropes, latches, various small covered items that he assumes are props for various acts. Despite the commotion around them, none seem in any sort of rush. There's a confident purpose to them that he almost admires; they clearly know precisely what they're doing.

When the crowd's finally settled, the leader from earlier — Haley — enters to stand in the center of their ring, calling the crowd's attention with a blast of something similar to a trumpet. There's a speech, but he barely listens to it. More interesting are the shadows of movements around the edge of the ring, and back through the slight gap that Haley came from, where he assumes that the rest of the troupe is waiting.

What he does pay attention to is the way that the workers scattered around the place all simultaneously dim the lights with sheets of metal, casting the whole ring in shadow to the gasp of the audience. There's a moment of darkness, and then _flame_ lights the ring again, billowing into the air with a flash. He inhales sharply at the brief illumination of the man beneath, before it's gone again, the darkness retaking the tent.

Despite his attempt at disinterest, the flame entices him almost as much as it does the crowd. The man controlling it, breathing it, spinning lit flames in dizzying circles, is as much shrouded in shadows as lit by the fire, and it is… _fascinating._

He is less interested by the blade acts that follow — impressive, but nothing he hasn't learned — but then he's once again captivated by the animals. Huge, lumbering beasts of grey with patterns painted on their skin, striped creatures of orange and black with glinting eyes and fangs, and a _roar_ that makes a few of the crowd scream.

Then the lights shift, the assistants aim it upwards, and his gaze follows the path to a man holding onto one of the ropes attached to the very roof of the tent itself as well as the wooden pole at the center that's holding it. After a moment of staring he realizes it's the man that smiled at him in the palace, dressed in tighter clothes now that are patterned black and a lighter blue. He's holding onto the rope idly, feet braced against the side of the pole and an easy smile wide enough it's visible even at such a distance. One hand rises, waves, and then the man just _lets go_.

His breath catches in his throat, and he _almost_ jerks to his feet as the man falls, body curling, twisting, the ground seeming to rise up and _meet_ him—

And both hands catch on another rope strung across, pulls it loose from wherever it's hooked and then the man is swinging wide, out over the crowd as they gasp as one, barely a dozen feet above him and he _swears_ the man smiles directly at him as he passes.

He stares in awe as the performer leaps off the rope, gets hold of another one and somehow gains momentum, riding it back up. Higher, with so little respect for gravity it seems to not have any hold on the man at all, and then plummeting just to catch again, and the man _laughs_. That body corkscrews through the air, in flips and twists he's not sure that he could come close to replicating even with sturdy ground to leap off of and a guaranteed landing.

In the back of his mind the thought occurs that if this man misses a single grip, if he falters in the _slightest_ , there is nothing below him but the hard ground. If he truly falls, he will die.

He watches with his heart in his throat, barely able to breathe. He feels caught in the man's sway as thoroughly as all the people beneath him are, captivated by the arc of his body, and entranced by this creature who looks like a man but must somehow have the power of _flight_ to do what he is. Some myth, or god, or being of the air. Such things do not exist, but he has a hard time believing that the man is merely human.

The man _flies_ , spinning up into the air and twisting, and his fingers clench down on the arms of his chair as the man seems _weightless_ for a moment in the final arc. Then gravity hooks claws back into the man, pulling him back towards the ground. One rope goes by, another, and his chest feels tight, the distance between the man and the ground too _small_. The last rope is caught, goes tight, and the man leans out with it, reaching out and skimming fingers along the ground as he spins around the width of the ring just _inches_ from the ground. Then, when the entire circle is finished, the man pulls, somehow rises into a flip and then lands solidly, rising to his feet with arms outstretched.

The crowd _screams_ approval, and somehow he finds himself prying his hands off the chair's arms and clapping, the tightness in his chest easing away to exhilaration. Luckily, out of the corner of his eye, he can see his mother doing the same. His fascination will not be noted.

Haley is entering again, and distantly he registers that this is the end of the show. But more than the words, he's focused on the way the man lingers next to Haley and the way he's smiling, wide and joyous. The man is breathing hard, and his chest feels tight for another moment when one hand rises and rakes back through that head of black hair, giving sudden understanding to why this man's hair would look wind-tousled despite a lack of actual wind.

The speech ends, and he follows the prompting of his mother to rise to his feet, allowing his arm to be taken again as the guards escort them through the crowd. He steals glances back towards the ring, looking back at the man's black and blue figure, and the close way he walks beside this group's leader. Friends, not just an employee among others. Or perhaps they're all like that. The more common classes do seem to have closer relationships among strangers than those of higher birth. They have fewer political and social games to play among themselves.

His mother is speaking about the show, and he answers when prompted, agreeing or offering commentary as is expected. He's positive that his mother is not at all fooled by his disinterest — after all, she was sitting next to him and doubtless saw at least some of his reaction — but she does not seem to have picked up on his fascination with that flying entertainer, which is probably for the better. Perhaps, if he is careful, he can ease the fascination in his chest and still avoid being actually caught at it.

He parts ways with his mother, wishing her a good night before allowing himself to be escorted by his personal guard back to his own rooms. Where he turns, and murmurs, "The flying performer; bring him to me, quietly."

The guard bows and slips away, and he enters his rooms and starts the habits of getting ready to sleep, not that he has any intention of doing so yet. Still, the pair of silk-smooth sleeping pants is infinitely more comfortable than his more regal clothing, as is the temporary outer robe of the same silk, both patterned black, gold, and green in the colors of his house. It leaves the front of his chest bare, and his mother would certainly chastise him for ever being seen in such a manner by someone not family, but he is not under his mother's command right now.

She also would not approve of him bringing a strange man to his chambers, no matter how fascinating that man is. Both his mother and grandfather have strictly discouraged any 'immoral' acts, because of the unpredictability of consequences; mainly, they're concerned at the idea of bastard children. He's kept his interest in the _male_ form carefully hidden from them both, not that such things are precisely forbidden, but that he is the only heir to his grandfather's empire, and he will be _required_ to marry a noblewoman at some point, to continue their line.

Not that he would be criticized for having a male lover on the side, if he chose. Someday.

The soft knock comes a moment before his door opens, and he turns towards it as his guard escorts the man in with a hand at his back. He nods to the guard, dismissing him, as the man sinks down to one knee.

"Your Highness," the man murmurs, as the door closes again.

The man's hair is wet, skin damp beneath a set of casual silver-grey clothing, the style closer to what a normal commoner might wear but still distinctly foreign. The neckline on it is larger than most others, exposing a large amount of the man's shoulders, as well as the definition of his collarbones and the first few inches of his back. His gut tightens in a way he recognizes, though has never felt quite this strongly before.

"You may stand," he grants, and the man does, rising to his feet with his head still slightly bowed. "What's your name, performer?"

The man meets his gaze, lips curling in another of those all too charming smiles. "Dick Grayson, if it pleases my lord. Did you enjoy the show, your Highness?"

"I did," he admits, after a moment. "How do you defy gravity that way, Grayson? It cannot be as magical as it appears."

Grayson gives a small laugh, and normally he would be irritated, would snap at anyone for daring to laugh at him, but somehow he finds himself… accepting, instead. "No, my lord. Practice, and talent. Flight is in my blood, as it was in my parents'. They used to joke that I was raised more in the air than on the ground." Another laugh. "That's not exactly wrong."

He watches Grayson smile, follows the hand that rises and pulls the wet strands of hair out of those impossibly blue eyes, pushing them back along his skull. That tightness in his gut winds a bit more, and he exhales slowly, crossing his arms as his gaze lowers to drift over the exposed skin at Grayson's chest. He follows the path of a water droplet that slides down the side of Grayson's neck, down to sit at the curve of one side of his collarbone before a breath knocks it loose, sending it sliding down beneath the edge of the cloth shirt.

"Come here," he demands, lifting his gaze back to Grayson's eyes. The smile is gone, leaving in its place a sharper sort of consideration. Still, Grayson comes to him. He reaches out, sliding his fingers over Grayson's cheek and tilting his chin up with one thumb. There's only a couple inches between them, and even a year ago he would have been the one looking up instead of the other way around.

"Your Highness," Grayson murmurs, "I'm getting a couple ideas about why I was brought here."

He hums something like confirmation, letting his gaze lower to rake across the line of Grayson's throat. "Are you opposed to any of them?" He hadn't been sure that he wanted to actually do anything, but… Well, _now_ he's sure. His family's rules can be ignored for the night; one encounter with a man is hardly going to have any consequences worth mentioning.

Grayson smiles, and then tilts into the hand on his cheek, eyes narrowing a touch. "Normally, I tend to be pretty in control of things like this."

He returns his gaze to those eyes, considers that idea, and then slowly admits, "Perhaps I am not entirely against the idea of giving up control."

That gets him a slightly more wicked smile, before Grayson's hand rises, strong, calloused fingers wrapping around his wrist. He watches, silent, as the performer removes the hand from his cheek, turning to brush lips against the delicate skin of his inner wrist. His breath catches and Grayson lets his wrist go, fingers coming up to touch his jaw instead, and then slide back into his hair. He lets the other man pull him down those couple of inches, skin and cloth brushing his as Grayson steps up against him and pulls him into a kiss. Soft, exploratory.

He breathes out when Grayson pulls back, letting his eyes flicker back open. A hand touches his shoulder, and his breath catches for a second time when sure fingers ease his robe off of that shoulder, and it slips from his back and to the floor. A moment later Grayson's lips are back on his, a little firmer this time, with the other hand touching his waist and then sliding slowly, carefully, around his back. It suddenly seems absurdly foolish to simply be standing there, caught in the midst of his own inexperience, so he presses forward into the kiss. Grayson seems taken aback for a moment, before he can feel the mouth against his curve into a smile.

His hands rise, and he's unsure of where to put them but decides that mimicry will have to do for now. So he grips Grayson's waist, finding the edge of the shirt and sliding his hands beneath it, over damp, heated skin. He may be taller, but he hasn't fully grown into it and Grayson is a bit thicker, with solid muscle clearly honed through years and years of exercise and performance. The callouses he can feel on Grayson's fingers, as they brush across his back, prove that what the performer said was true. Practice, and talent. He'd be curious to see how Grayson's acrobatic skill plays into a more practical skill, like combat.

Some other time.

He pushes the shirt higher, tracing his fingers up either side of Grayson's ribs. Then Grayson is pulling back, stepping away. He _almost_ demands an explanation before he flicks his eyes open and realizes that Grayson is gripping his shirt and pulling it off, letting it drop to the floor. His gaze lowers to the hem of Grayson's pants, to the defined ridges of muscle and the slight shine to his skin that the dampness is granting. Because of the distraction, it takes him some time to realize that Grayson is doing much the same, gaze wandering along his own chest. When he realizes that he flushes, and that seems to jar Grayson out of the moment.

"Your Highness," Grayson breathes, stepping closer and touching his arms, meeting his gaze. "Do you have oil, or anything like that?"

His flush darkens, but he nods and answers, "In the chest by the bed."

Just because he has not been allowed to seek pleasure in the forms of anyone else does not mean he has not… experimented. Once he discovered he enjoyed the sight of men as much if not more so than women, it seemed a natural progression to test to see if he enjoyed the acts he'd heard of two men engaging in. Despite the original awkwardness of it, he's decided he certainly _does_. He has found greater pleasure there than with simply his own hand, even with his concern that someone may suspect him of such acts.

The oil is multipurpose, and he will defend that until his last breath if questioned.

"You're damp," he points out, as it finally occurs to him to ask past all of the distractions and other matters. "Why?"

It's Grayson's turn to look embarrassed, gaze dipping and a small grin twisting his mouth. "Your guard caught me right after I started to wash off. I got to the _wet_ part but not the _clean_ one. Sorry, your Highness."

He looks for a moment, doesn't find anything visible, doesn't _smell_ anything but a hint of sweat, and decides, "I do not mind."

Grayson smiles, and then presses a hand to the center of his chest and pushes him backwards. He goes along with the pressure, stepping backwards across the room and trying to recall precisely what is behind him. Nothing, is the answer, until his back presses up against a stone wall, and Grayson crowds him against it. He sucks in a small breath, but it's quickly stolen by the mouth that seals over his, teeth grazing over his bottom lip and a tongue flicking up to coax his mouth open in turn. He allows it, shivering at the firm pressure of the hands sweeping up his sides, at the muscle he can feel shifting beneath his fingers as he digs them into the skin of Grayson's back.

One hand rises back up to his hair, gripping it to turn his head to a better angle for the kiss, and the other slides down, teasing at the hem of his sleeping pants. He gives a quiet moan into Grayson's mouth, and that seems to be permission enough for that hand to loosen the ties holding his pants up and let them fall. He shudders, moans louder when Grayson's hand circles him, palm warm against his own heat, and gives a testing stroke. The appreciative groan that Grayson gives into his mouth, tongue sliding in and against his own, is enough to send heat rushing down his spine to coil low in his gut with all that original tension. It's gratifying when Grayson shifts closer and slightly to the side, hips pressing up against his thigh, and there's an answering stiffness pressed against him.

"Grayson," he gasps, when their lips finally part. "Get _on_ with it."

Grayson laughs, low and rich and more than a little hungry. "I thought you were giving up control, your Highness."

Despite the words, Grayson lets go of him and pulls back, before taking one of his hands and pulling him towards the bed. He lets himself be pushed down onto it, with Grayson crawling over him in the next moment, hands pressing him down and stroking over his skin in equal measures. Instead of kissing him again, Grayson's mouth falls to his chest, pressing kisses to the curves of his collarbone and the definition of his pectorals instead. He shivers when a stray breath ghosts over one of his nipples, and he catches the edge of a smirk before one of Grayson's hands slides up, palm rubbing over the sensitive skin entirely on purpose. He arches up, curling his hands into the sheets and exhaling a shaky breath.

Grayson's mouth slips lower, and he looks down to watch his performer paint a trail of kisses down his ribs, across his stomach. He stares as Grayson presses a lingering one to his hip, then eases between his thighs and pushes them slightly open. His breath comes a bit faster, and then freezes in his chest when Grayson's head dips, tongue sliding out and up the underside of his cock. He jerks, gasps, and then cries out embarrassingly loud when those lips slide over the head of him. Hands press against his hips, holding him to the bed, and he tightens his grip on the sheets and arches as much as he is allowed, biting down into his own lip.

It is an entirely new sort of pleasure, hot and wet in a way he's only ever fantasized about, with the flicker of a tongue against sensitive nerves and then Grayson _groans_ around him. He cries out again, trying to buck up but the hands against his hips keep him held down. He presses his thighs inwards instead, against the muscle of those shoulders, and just shakes, trembling and twisting how he can as he gasps and moans his pleasure. He does not think it can get better, until Grayson shifts, draws back an inch to breathe over him, and then sinks down again, _farther_. His eyes go wide as Grayson takes in the entirety of him, and he can feel a ripple of muscle around him, realizes that the head of him is actually in Grayson's _throat_.

He chokes, arching, and then almost sobs pleasure as Grayson begins to move, sliding up and down the length of him with ease. He opens his mouth, wants to warn Grayson about the coil at the base of his spine, but another ripple of muscle steals his breath and he just gives a strangled shout instead, twisting his fingers in the sheets until it _hurts_. Not that it stops the coil from snapping, and he feels the hard shake in his thighs, the rhythmic clenching of his gut as he comes, arching high and crying out towards the ceiling.

Grayson's mouth stays, sucking through his release right up until he collapses downwards. Only then does the performer let him slip free, hands easing off his hips. He has _just_ enough energy to open his eyes and look up as Grayson crawls over him, hands bracing at either side of his head as that mouth — that _mouth_ — smiles down at him.

"You're pretty loud," Grayson murmurs, and he flushes instantaneously. "No; I like it. Lets me know I'm doing a good job."

"I—" It's hard to summon the energy to speak, with his veins still humming with satisfaction, but he forces himself to. "I meant to warn you."

"It's fine." One of Grayson's hands lifts, knuckles brushing over his cheek. "I'm going to grab that oil now, your Highness. Work you open nice and slow, till you're hard again. Alright?"

He stares for a moment, and then manages a small nod. Grayson leans in, tilting his face up and kissing him again. He meets it as best he can, raising a hand to grip Grayson's shoulder, to slide over his back. There's the flicker of a tongue and he allows it to push inside his mouth, to take his mouth for a moment before withdrawing. Grayson shifts off of him, and he watches as he tries to identify the bitter taste now in his mouth, tries to—

 _Oh_. That's _him_. Grayson tastes of _him_ because there's no mess and— _Oh_.

His breath catches, and he feels himself twitch, a dizzying spike of desire slicing down his spine. Grayson, as if knowing some semblance of what he's thinking about, looks up from kneeling in front of the chest the oil is in and gives a small smirk. He watches, trying to reconcile that reaction with the actual act, as Grayson retrieves the jar of oil and carries it over, setting it carefully on the stand by his bed. He expects Grayson to come back onto the bed, but instead the performer straightens up a bit, hands sliding down to the hem of the pants he's wearing. He swallows, just before Grayson pushes them down, letting them pool on the floor. It only takes a moment for his gaze to rise up the length of those legs to the jut of Grayson's erection, and then for his cheeks to warm even further with the flush he can't seem to get rid of.

Grayson moves forward then, shifting over him and slotting a thigh in place between his, leaning down to kiss him. He feels the brush of Grayson against his hip and gives a small moan into the kiss, raising his hands to grip Grayson's shoulders and ground himself.

Grayson shifts to the side, the kiss breaking for a moment as he reaches out for the jar, pulling it open. He shivers as Grayson's fingers dip inside, come out dripping and slick, and Grayson swings to the side to lie beside him instead of straddle his thigh. Grayson's hand slips between his thighs, eases them open with touches that leave little trails of oil on his skin, and a mouth presses to his shoulder as they move higher. He grabs at Grayson's hair as those fingers slide down against him, slick against sensitive skin, curling his hand through the black strands and turning his head to meet those blue eyes.

"Easy," Grayson murmurs, as a single finger traces the outside of him in small circles, enough to tease the nerves there. "Just relax, your Highness; I know what I'm doing."

He parts his mouth, considers the truth — that no one has ever touched him, that no one has ever _dared_ to try even half of what Grayson has already done — before deciding to speak only a fraction of it. "I have never let anyone else do this to me."

Surprise flickers across Grayson's expression, and then those eyes dip downwards, that mouth pressing against his shoulder for another moment. "I'm honored. Thank you, your Highness."

"Damian," he corrects, and then squirms a little at both the continued touches as well as the way Grayson looks at him. "My name is Damian. Prince, if you must be so formal, though it seems rather _ludicrous_ given current positioning and what you have already done to me."

He's graced with another smile, as Grayson laughs into his shoulder. "Alright, as you wish, Damian. Relax."

The finger circling him pauses, then slips forward, pressing in just slightly, withdrawing, then again. He shivers, flexes the hand he has in Grayson's hair, and eases into it as he has with his own fingers so many times. It feels different, to allow someone else to breach him, to feel the inwards pressure and the slick slide without the other side of the sensation. He arches his head back, breathes with it and considers how very _intimate_ it feels to allow this man to slide a finger in and out of him. He twists his head towards Grayson, raises his other hand and lets it rest on Grayson's shoulder, feeling the rolling movement of it and linking it to the movement of the finger inside him.

He's still humming a bit, so the slide of the finger feels good, is more like an aftertaste of release than the preparatory stretch when he does it himself. The second comes easily, sliding inside of him as Grayson presses against his side, rocking lazily against his hip in slow, unhurried rolls. He lets himself luxuriate in the feeling, letting himself rock down against those fingers and close his eyes, feeling the way they curl inside him, searching, and then finally _finding_. He gasps, and Grayson gives a groan against his shoulder. When he feels movement, he opens his eyes in time to see Grayson shift over him, fingers never pausing even as the performer straddles his thigh again and leans down into him, other hand bracing beside his head.

The kiss is expected, as is the slide of Grayson's tongue inside his mouth, moving in time with his fingers and that trick makes him give a muffled moan, the nails of the hand not buried in Grayson's hair digging into his back again. He rocks a bit more purposefully, whining softly when a third finger starts to push in beside the others. He relaxes, spreads his thighs wider and encourages the stretch, moans for it.

"That's it," Grayson breathes against his lips. "That's it. You're doing so well."

He takes in a shaky breath, finding enough focus to demand, "Do not _patronize_ me, Grayson. Just because I have not let someone else do this does not mean I have not done it to myself." He snaps his mouth shut a moment later in embarrassment, flicking his eyes open to look up at Grayson's startled blue gaze.

"You do this to yourself?" the performer asks, voice quiet, fingers slowed.

"Do not _stop_ ," he demands, in more of a groan than he'd like. "No, I keep oil in my room at all times for my many male lovers," he spits sarcastically.

Grayson smirks, of all things, and then gives a laugh and kisses him. Brief, shallow. "Well you're a prince; that could be true. I bet you can have anyone you want."

"If I chose to," he says, avoiding the question of if he _has_. "You are here, are you not?"

Grayson smiles this time, wider, and purposefully rocks the fingers in him up, rubs and he gasps, bucks. Any further noise he makes is muffled by the press of Grayson's lips against his, with renewed intensity now. He digs his nails harder into Grayson's back, meets all of it as best he can manage and wishes — though he will _not_ say it — that Grayson's other hand were free to touch him as well. He wants the press of it against his skin, wants it enhancing the pleasure of the fingers inside him, like Grayson's mouth is.

Eventually, he begins to grow hard again.

Grayson notices fairly quickly, and gives a hum of satisfaction into his mouth; he can _feel_ the smile. It almost feels like he was never given the chance to come back down, like he's already wound tight and this is just more on top, building on top of his last release and the satisfaction in his veins that's slid back to pleasure. He's never tried working himself to a second release on the heels of a first one. Now he thinks he may have been missing out on something very, _very_ enjoyable. Not that he normally has the time to luxuriate in a bed and do something like this.

Grayson grazes teeth across his lip, then draws back, rocking fingers inside him and pressing kisses down his throat. "There we go. All ready. _That's_ it."

He moans, louder now without the press of Grayson's mouth to muffle it. He grips harder at Grayson's hair, trembles a bit as the other man slides between his thighs, cock slotting against his own. Grayson echoes his moan, then slips the fingers free from inside him. He can't find words in him to actually speak, so he just whines as Grayson stretches out, reaching for that jar of oil again. He watches those fingers slick again, brings his legs up to press against either side of Grayson's hips as he clutches at the performer's back, holding him close.

Grayson is kissing him again, messy and a bit desperate, and he can feel bits of the oil drop against his side, down across his hip.

"Grayson," he whispers, tugging at that black hair. " _Grayson_."

"One second," Grayson answers. "I've got you, your Highness. _Damian_. Just one second."

He feels blunt heat, and then Grayson is pushing into him. Slow, steady, stretching him and he digs his nails into Grayson's back at the feeling of it, cries out into the space between them. Grayson reaches in, grips the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss. He still moans into it, gripping harder with his thighs and feeling every incredible inch sliding inside of him. Until finally, _finally_ , it stops. Until finally Grayson is panting against his mouth, still gripping his neck and poised over him, as deep as he'll ever be. He shudders, sharing air in the fraction between their mouths, unable to stop himself from giving little sounds of pleasure every time he exhales.

Grayson lets go of his neck, sliding that hand down his side, stroking gentle patterns over his hip and down one leg. " _God,_ you're so hot inside, Damian. Let me have you, my Prince. Let me move."

He gasps, shakes, and then lets go. He loosens his thighs, lets his legs fall open and his grip on Grayson's hair ease, sliding his hand down his performer's back. Grayson groans and presses closer, giving a testing rock of his hips that makes him echo that groan, canting his hips up towards the feeling of it. The hand on his hip slides down, wrapping around the bottom of his thigh and pulling his leg up higher, up along Grayson's back and finally — as he gasps — up over one muscled shoulder. It allows Grayson to shift closer, to push another fraction deeper inside of him.

The first real thrust shakes him, makes him clutch at Grayson's shoulders and arch up against him. It's such a very different feeling than just his own fingers; he feels possessed, full, _taken_. It's enough to make him tremble, to coax him to cry out and clench his legs tight against his performer's body again as the rock inside of him rubs across sensitive nerves that he hadn't known could feel quite so _incredible_. Grayson is panting above him, skin still damp but more with sweat now than just water, hips rolling in clearly practiced circles, one hand gripping the thigh of the leg he has over Grayson's shoulder.

"Damian," Grayson gasps, almost reverent. "Touch yourself, please."

For a moment he has no idea how he's supposed to function enough to make that happen, but then he manages to pry one hand off of Grayson's shoulder and reach down between them, wrapping a hand around himself. He sobs out a breath, grasping blindly with his other hand until he finds Grayson's neck and can dig his nails into the back of it. Grayson grunts, pushing further down against him and speeding up the pace of those thrusts. He does his best to time the stroking of himself with Grayson's movements, but can only sort of manage it. It's awkward and uncoordinated, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel incredible, and that he isn't hurtling towards the edge of a cliff _so_ much higher than the last one that Grayson pulled him from.

He does not know how to hold back, does not _want_ to, so he lets himself ride the crest of the wave without even considering what Grayson may think of him. He pries his eyes open to find Grayson looking down at him, the pupils in those blue eyes blown wide, damp hair clinging to his forehead and such _desire_ in his gaze. He swallows, caught by that gaze, unable to look away even as he rises higher, higher, _higher_. His hand almost feels unnecessary, because it isn't long before Grayson is sliding just right inside him and he's shaking again, arching, _screaming_ towards the ceiling as the wave finally crashes back down. Dimly he can hear Grayson speaking, muttering something strained and comforting sounding, but he feels as if he is lit from within and focus is a thing far out of reach right now.

He's aware of Grayson pushing hard into him, gripping his thigh tightly, moaning above him and then _shouting_. He gasps, squirms at the feeling of wet heat inside of him, at the knowledge of what that _means_. Then Grayson is easing his leg down, rubbing at the muscles of his thigh as they twinge, sliding from within him — to mutual groans — and lying down beside him. He breathes hard, floats in the glow, and does not protest the performer pulling him onto his side and up against him, a muscular arm wrapping around his back as his head is pressed to a damp collarbone.

He reaches out instead, sliding his own arm around Grayson's back and breathing in the smell of sweat and sex with a small shudder. It's no hardship to simply lie there, letting his breathing calm down and letting himself luxuriate for a while longer. He has waited to experience pleasure like this for a long time; he's certainly going to enjoy every bit of it he can manage before he is forced to return to reality.

Eventually he feels tiredness beckon, and almost considers letting it have him before deciding that having sex with a relative stranger and actually sleeping beside them are two very different levels of rebellion. He is not fully ready to commit to the idea of his mother, or anyone else, seeing him like this. He breathes out, long and slow, hearing the steady thud of Grayson's heart beneath his ear, and then pulls away. Grayson lets him go easily enough, smiling up at him and not questioning the fact that he's rising. He stretches, arching his back and giving a soft sigh as something shifts back into place with a muted crack.

"I require a wash," he decides, as he realizes that he has dried sweat on his skin, his own release across his stomach, and trickles of… of both oil and Grayson's seed between his thighs. That thought should not satisfy him as much as it does.

Grayson shifts up beside him, a hand touching his low back and lips pressing to the side of his throat. "Is there any water in here?"

He grunts an affirmative, flicking his hand towards the opposite side of the room, and the dresser with the bowl of water on top of it. For washing his face before and after sleep, but this is an adequate use of it. There's a small pile of neatly folded cloths beside it too, and Grayson gives one more kiss — higher towards his ear — before sliding from the bed and heading towards them. His gaze catches on the muscles of Grayson's back and the lines of red scratches, and he flushes a bit as he realizes that he caused them. The flush only darkens when his gaze dips a bit and finds Grayson's ass, and he quickly averts his gaze. Somehow, despite what they've just done, it seems improper to be staring.

Grayson comes back to him with a damp cloth, and he lets the performer ease him onto his back again, cloth sliding gently over first his stomach, and then down between his legs. It's an odd feeling, but not in any way an unpleasant one. He watches as Grayson wipes himself down with familiar movements as well, then looks around until he finds the metal basket that serves as a place for his soiled clothes to go. It's fascinating to watch Grayson move around, discarding the cloth and then carefully putting the oil back in its place, before collecting the scattered pieces of their clothing from around the room.

"Do you always clean up so immediately?" he asks, as Grayson comes back to the bed with their clothing in hand. He takes his sleeping pants when they're offered to him, and slides them back on as Grayson smiles.

"It's habit. Growing up with the troupe taught me to clean up what I used as soon as I was done, because you never quite knew when you might have to move on, or how quickly. That never left me." Grayson tugs on his own pants, then climbs back onto the bed to lie next to him. "I guess you're the opposite; servants handle all of that?"

He clicks his tongue, allowing Grayson to lie up against his side, one hand coming to rest on his stomach. "My mother would have my hide if I was such a slob. I merely didn't see the need to attend to it right at that moment." Reluctantly, he admits, "You should leave before too long though. The longer you are here, the more you risk discovery by my family."

The hand on his stomach trails fingers down the faint trail of hair leading to the hem of his pants, and he twitches and pulls in a sharp breath. "They don't approve of you fraternizing with the common people?"

He shrugs, then — feeling rather giddily _daring_ — admits, "Well, they will certainly not approve of one having taken my innocence. Especially in such a manner as this."

Grayson stills. "Wait, your _what_ now?"

There's a hard slam against his door, and a call of, " _Damian!_ " from beyond it. His mother.

Grayson jerks away, grabbing his shirt and rolling off the bed as he pushes up to sitting. "You're a _virgin?_ " Grayson asks, wrenching his way into the shirt, eyes wide.

He smirks, easily standing from the bed. "Well, no longer, obviously."

The door slams open, two guards rushing into the room ahead of his mother, swords drawn. Grayson freezes up for a second, and they draw to a halt as his mother pushes ahead of them, gaze sliding from him, to the bed, to Grayson, and then narrowing.

" _Wayne._ How _dare_ you?"

He whips his head around to stare at Grayson. " _Wayne?_ " he hisses, hands clenching at his sides.

"Okay, first of all," Grayson says, clearly poised to run, "I had _no idea_ that your son was still an innocent, Talia, and I definitely would never have— Anyway, yes, Wayne, but my name _used_ to be Grayson so it's not exactly like I was lying. Precisely."

"He was sent to gather information about our court and kingdom," his mother snaps, looking a step from murder. " _Prince_ Richard Wayne, heir to their throne. You'll regret what you've taken."

Grayson gives a crooked smile, a disarming laugh, and then bolts for the window.

He stares, watching the guards rush Grayson, watching the performer throw the window open and all but dive out. His mother stalks after, as the guards try and follow but clearly — considering the shouting — don't manage to catch him. His mother stares out the window for a minute, then pulls it closed and turns to him.

"If you had _told_ me," he says, before his mother can even start, "I could have helped you set a trap." Then, as he watches her eyes narrow, he crosses his arms and flatly declares, "I do not regret it."

Even as his mother glares at him, and then turns and strides out of the room with a huff, that manages to remain firm in his mind. One of the Wayne misfits, perhaps, but he does not regret the experience.

He walks over to the window, opening it and leaning out, following the shouting to look out towards where Grayson must be. He smiles.

He does not regret it in the slightest.


End file.
